Portraiture
by merlinmercury
Summary: "I have always favoured the glide of oils over canvas in my artworks," Moriarty whispers. "But I think that of you, Joan Watson, I should like to have a sculpture."


"Here you go, surprising me once again," Moriarty smiles into the skin of Joan's neck, brushes soft lips against her jugular.

"Really? I don't think missing the indicators of basic attraction are something to be blamed on my supposed complexity."

Moriarty moves down to scrape teeth along her collarbone, and Joan shivers.

"But you see, there's nothing basic about this. Tell me, why do you want me?"

It's harder for Joan to gather her thoughts when a hot mouth is working its way down to the space between her breasts, when her spine is pressed hard against the wall and careful hands are inching incrementally further up her spread thighs.

"You're beautiful," she offers—an easy excuse, existing only to be shot down.

"Thank you," Moriarty purrs. "But the truth, now, if you wouldn't mind."

"I think—" Joan starts, but the words trail off into a groan as a wet tongue grazes her nipple. "Why don't you tell me,if you know so much about what I want and why."

The loss of the mouth on her breast is regrettable, but it's a small price to pay for the way Moriarty's voice smoothes over her, like the cleverest of caresses in itself. Moriarty doesn't make her deductions the way Sherlock does; everything about him is perfunctory, paradoxically modest at the same time as proud. Moriarty's genius doesn't steal time away from her performance; her persona that's made up of indulgent silk and velvet and is an art form all of its own.

"You're smart, but not the way Sherlock is," Moriarty's words glide over the skin of Joan's stomach in warm puffs of air. "You don't have to solvepeople in order to understand them."

"Of course I don't; that's not what people are like."

"I think you like that even he can't solve me; that I have him all tied up in his own deductions, writing his letters and telling himself that one day, when he finally figures me out, then he'll let himself come to me. You aren't restrained by that; aren't afraid to have me despite not knowing everything. And I think you like that I'm the biggest mystery you've ever encountered—something nobody can master—and you managed to see in me what he couldn't. I think, secretly, you like that he wants me but I. want. you."

Joan doesn't answer, is too preoccupied by the twin tasks of processing Moriarty's words and holding herself still as light fingers ghost over her underwear.

"What surprises me is the fact that you still turned me in, the fact that you're still making sure I stay behind bars for as long as possible. Why, when I can make you scream like nobody else ever will? Dear Sherlock has informed me of your... unfortunate forays into the dating world. Might I claim some responsibility? Have I ruined you for all others?" Moriarty smirks.

"Don't flatter yourself," Joan retorts, but she's betrayed by the shudder than runs through her as Moriarty's fingers keep up their wandering dance.

"I don't require flattery. The truth speaks highly enough of me."

"Well, maybe I don't think great sex is any reason to let a murderer go free."

"Men throughout history have sacrificed far more for far less."

"Men," Joan points out.

"Well I'm sure a few women have too," Moriarty adds. She pauses, then continues; "I think perhaps you like seeing me locked up. It turns you on knowing I'm in handcuffs and it's you that put me there. It's like a sort of BDSM for you, isn't it?"

Joan doesn't bite. "I like knowing that people are safe from you," she hisses. "And yes, I do like knowing that I helped keep them safe."

"So it really is all about the rush, then; the idea of atonement, and self-affirmation? You know, for a sober companion you make a remarkably good portrait of an addict."

"It's not all about that," Joan protests, as she curls her fingers in the smooth blonde strands of Moriarty's hair. She tries to be gentle about it, but she doesn't try too hard. "I wasn't lying when I said you were beautiful."

Moriarty laughs, just soft shakes of it that vibrate through her body. She runs her hands over every bit of Joan's skin that she can reach, as though memorising it, knowing they're unlikely to see each other again for a long, long time.

"I have always favoured the glide of oils over canvas in my artworks," she whispers. "But I think that of you, Joan Watson, I should like to have a sculpture."


End file.
